Life is a Party
by Bluemoon dreamer
Summary: PreIsland: The Shepards attend an event, and Christian becomes a shoulder for Sarah to cry on. Vague spoilers for The Hunting Party


**DISCLAIMER: **No, I don't own _Lost, _I'm just playing with the characters and then handing them back to Damon and JJ to do with as they like.

**A/N: **This is one of the first fics I have ever written like this, so any pointers would be very much appreciated.

**SPOILERS: **Vague2.11 "The Hunting Party"

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Attend, drink, fuck, sleep; that was how Christian viewed all parties he appeared at.

Tonight he was not the guest of honor; his son was. Someone had already expounded on Jack's virtues, talking all about his amazing medical career, his latest article in _Medicine Today, _his wife, Sarah, his "miracle" patient.

Sarah was a miracle all right; a miracle Jack did not deserve. Christian would never say that to his son's face; hell, if he were not so drunk, he never would have even thought it. But that is how the elder Shepard viewed his son's wife. Women like Sarah were one in a million, and Jack did not see that. But he could not bring it up; that would just bring on a rant from his son, how he was far from the ideal husband himself and who was he to say anything on the matter.

That was hardly Christian's point though; his own marriage to his wife was tumultuous, both had had affairs, fights, regrets. Neither saw the point in divorce now; they lived their lives as they each saw fit, checking in with each other like roommates in college might, sharing information only when it was unavoidable. They might live in the same house, but their minds, and bodies, lived in very different worlds.

Christian had not wanted that for his son, tried to steer him away from certain heartache. He had failed; now he had to watch their marriage fall apart piece by piece as he longed for the woman his son came home to every night; the magical woman his son never realized he had, and one day lost.

"Vodka on the rocks," a feminine voice to his left asked the bartender. Christian turned, and with a slight frown marring her outlandish features, Sarah stood staring off in the direction she had just come.

"That's a little stronger than you normally drink, Sarah," Christian commented.

Sarah turned to him, her frown relaxing into a small smile. "Well, tonight has not been an easy one to swallow, didn't see any reason why the drink should be." She took up on the stool next to him, and Christian noticed just how short the skirt on her scarlet cocktail dress was; she was begging for attention in that dress, and from the way men had been looking her that night, she had apparently gotten the attention of every man save the one she wanted.

Sarah's drink slid into place in front of her, and she gave the bartender a small smile before she turned back to him, her blonde hair swinging over her shoulder in an easy movement that mesmerized him. "So, what are you still doing here? Jack mentioned you had a conference tomorrow in San Diego."

"Waiting to see my son," Christian answered, taking another sip of his drink. "Wanted to tell him he did a nice job tonight, he should be proud." Sarah nodded, smiling, but he saw yearning pass across her face, but it disappeared in a second, leaving on a shadow in her eyes. "Sarah, are you all right?" he inquired softly, trying to shut out the bartender only a few feet away.

"What?" she asked distractedly, blushing slightly. "Of course, I'm fine, Christian." She turned from him, playing with her drink. "I'm good. Jack's just as caring and considerate as ever, no fights, no… _nothing_." She looked back up at him, and he saw tears shining there.

He stood up, surprised that he felt hardly dizzy at all, and held out his hand for Sarah. "Come on, we'll go somewhere more private."

She took his hand, clinging to his tightly, and held her drink in the other hand as she followed next to him, tears silently leaking down her face. He led her into the elevator, up to his room, just two down from his son's; he never told Jack he had booked a hotel room. He planned on taking a flight in the morning, flying with a hangover was better in his mind than flying drunk or sober, and he did not know why.

He ushered her in, and the door had barely clicked closed behind them before she had her arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder, sobbing. His arms were open around her, and he was wary of holding her back; her dress was backless, an open invitation. He gently cupped her head with one hand, rested the other one gently on her middle back, hoping she never noticed the sweat that had gathered on his palm.

"Sarah, it's okay," he whispered in her ear, trying to soothe the sobbing woman in his arms, his son's wife. "Everything is going to be okay."

"No it's not," she replied, pulling back from his chest, placing strain on that hand that held her back, her face streaked black from her mascara. "He comes home at all hours of the night; he rarely ever eats at home. When I ask about his day, he avoids the questions; he never asks what I do during the day, and when he does, I can tell it's only because he feels it's his duty." She paused, and he waited, trying to ignore the sweat that was breaking out all over his body from her shear nearness. "Do you think it's because of me? Have I done something wrong?"

His heart broke just a little at her question. He wondered again how his son had found this woman and not realized what he had. "No, never," he assured her. "Jack has always loved his job; it was always my fear that he might become too caught up to notice what he has standing right in front of him." The moments the words left his mouth, he wondered if that he been too overt, if he had just slipped.

He watched several clouded emotions cross over her face. He tried not to fidget; he did not need to give himself away even more. "And what do you see standing in front of you, Christian?" she asked, her voice husky and begging; somehow she was even more vulnerable as the luring enchantress.

Christian's mind raced; he wondered if there was any way he could get out of this, especially with the rest of him becoming even more turned on as she drew herself up against him. "A beautiful young woman that my son is a fucking fool for ignoring," he told her, almost choking on the words as they came out.

For a moment, Sarah just looked into his eyes; he felt like his soul was being examined, and he swallowed nervously. He opened his mouth, to take the words back, to do anything, just to force her to move when she pulled him into a passionate kiss, her tongue delving into his mouth with great need.

She pulled all him even closer to her body, breast, stomach, legs; everything was pressed so tight against his body that he was not sure where their bodies separated. Christian stayed frozen, unmoving as she explored his mouth, forcing herself onto him until the thoughts of _wrong, wrong, wrong _were reduced to nothing with one guttural moan.

He lifted her up, forced her to maintain her grip on him as he moved clumsily toward the bed, pushing back against her tongue, forcing her to retreat, until he was the one with control, the one eliciting the moans.

He lowered her onto the bed, never breaking contact with her body, her lips, as he pushed her up onto the bed, pressed her to the mattress, parting her legs that she swept around him to draw him ever closer. He forced himself onto her as surely as she had forced herself unto him.

He broke away from her lips to breathe, turning his attention to her neck, her jaw, her ears. "We shouldn't be doing this," he whispered against her skin, pressing kisses along a path from her neck to her ear. "Jack––"

She pulled herself up, moving his line of sight from her ear to the swell of her breasts in one swift movement. "This is not about, Jack," she said flatly, brushing a hand across his face, and he pulled himself up again so they were at eye level. "This is about us."

Christian could come up with a good half a dozen reasons why this was about Jack, and he opened his mouth to argue, but she placed her finger against his lips, silencing him. "I've watched you, Christian," she whispered, her hand grasping one of his free ones. "Watched the way you look at me, saw the barely concealed desire, even when I'm horrible mess. You listen, you offer advice; you're everything I want in a man. Besides," she gently raised her hips until they were snug against his arousal, "you can't pretend you don't want this." She drew him into a gentle kiss, directed his hand to her breast.

When she broke the kiss, panting, she whispered, "Fuck me, Christian. Don't look back."

Christian looked back at the aroused young woman beneath him, begging him to cross that line. Her eyes spoke of so many things; heartache, rejection, want, arousal, and in a moment of clarity, he realized he did not want to look back. He wanted this, her, his son's wife. "With pleasure," he murmured, and lowered his lips back to hers; and he step over one more line, burned one last bridge.

Attended, drank, fucked, slept; his life was just a string of parties.

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Feedback is love. 


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